Side Effects and Little Reminders

I have a confession. Christmas prep this year is really overwhelming.

I know, I know. Christmas prep is always overwhelming. There's shopping, presents, parties and plans. Baking and christmas cards, and all of the other necessary Christmas trappings. And all to manage in the four weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. And Oh. My. God. I haven't even mentioned the Elf on the Shelf. The other night John asked me where ours was and I begged and pleaded with him to forget about it for this year. I just don't think I can be responsible for the creative antics of a plastic elf right now.

Because I am overwhelmed beyond the trim and trap. As a matter of fact, if our time abroad taught me anything, it's that the little details aren't always so important. The problem that I'm having, is that little reminders keep sneaking up on me. Reminders of what we were dealing with last year at this time.

For example, last week, when I pulled out the Advent Calendars, they were only half finished. They stopped at December 12, the day our movers came to pack us up. I put on a winter jacket for the first time this year, and found a chestnut in my pocket. They used to fall along the path on the way to the chateau. And earlier this week, we decorated our Christmas tree. Miss B didn't recognize any of the ornaments. Because the last time she got to decorate a Christmas tree she was only 3 years old. On the positive side, I only have to superglue one ornament back together this year. That tally has definitely gone down since the last time our family decorated a tree.

Every one of those reminders jolts me back to what we were doing last year at this time, and it physically hurts my heart and brings tears to my eyes to remember. I think about all of the traditions we are missing back in Belgium. I think about our old house, always so cozy at Christmas. I think about the moving stress. And how painful it was to look at hundreds of white boxes stacked in every spare space. (And yes, there were hundreds. Remember? They took apart our couch and it alone went into five different boxes. I think the dining room table was in ten.) I think about all of the goodbyes we had to say, everywhere we went. Goodbyes that seem like forever goodbyes because now Belgium seems so very far away.

Sigh. Deep breath. Maybe, I could use the distraction of the mischievous plastic elf.

One year since our move, we are in a good place. My little family has done such an amazing job with the cultural adjustments. My kids are thriving in their new school and activities and we are so proud of them. There are new career options that weren't available to us before. I am beyond grateful for new friends and exciting opportunities. And the chance to be around family. But the little reminders still sneak in and stab at my heart when I'm least expecting it. I don't regret any of it. We were so lucky to have the opportunity in the first place. I think...it's just one of those side effects that come from letting your heart live in two different places at once.  

It's Not About the Food.

Thanks to likes of Norman Rockwell and Martha Stewart among many other leading, defining forces in Americana, everyone has an image in their head of what the perfect Thanksgiving should look like. There are family recipes that must be prepared just so. There are certain dishes that have to be on the table…or it’s just not right.

This is our first Thanksgiving on American soil, ever, as a family (because when we moved over there, we gained an extra kid). This is the first Thanksgiving in our little family history, where my kids don’t have to go to school. This is the first Thanksgiving where my kids got to talk about the holiday in school -- about what it means, about what it is. Today is our first Thanksgiving.

When we celebrated Thanksgiving in Belgium, we pieced together our dinner with the traditional favorites, as best we could. Just go back to an entry from last year, where I blogged about how we were on our very own episode of Amazing Race, and the road block challenge was: Go buy a turkey. If I remember correctly, our bird last year came in pieces because we found a turkey breast at one grocery store, and the legs at another. It certainly was easier to cook it. And forget all of the extra fancy side dishes. We were lucky to get cranberries from a friend who had access to the American army base (thanks, always and forever, Dan). Add in mashed potatoes and gravy and we called it good. 

All of that taught me, it’s not about the food. So today. So what if someone forgot the marshmallows that go on top of the sweet potatoes. It will still taste good. And who cares if Aunt Betty decided not to bring THE Jello salad this year and instead opted for a suspect Kale dish instead. It’s not about the food.

As we pack up to go to my brother’s house, I know my mashed potatoes are too lumpy. And after six years of having to make my own pumpkin or pecan pies from scratch (with imported canned pumpkin and/or hard-to-find brown sugar) this year, I blissfully went online and pre-orded my pumpkin pie for pick-up yesterday at 10am. The uniform swirls of whip cream on top look glorious. I can’t even eat because it’s not gluten-free, but I don’t care. This year, our family gets us at Thanksgiving (lumpy mashed potatoes and all). This year, my kids get to see their cousins and grandparents for Thanksgiving.

For us, today, it’s not about the food.

Coffee Cups.

Ok, someone needs to explain to me about the coffee cups. When did Americans decide to start walking around with their coffee mugs? Not the thermos mugs, the ceramic ones right out of their kitchen cabinets?

I get that we have a "to-go" culture. I get that everyone likes their coffee in their car and this is why we have coffee shops on every block. Heck, we even have coffee shops with drive-thrus.

But really, why do all of the parents feel the need to walk their kids into school with their coffee mugs in hand? Yesterday at my daughter's ballet class after school, a mom was still carrying her coffee mug with her there, too. When did the "to-go" mugs disappear anyway? The thermos ones ones with the lids  that actually kept it warm. Doesn't coffee get really cold really fast when you start walking around with the mug outside? And what if you drop it? And what about spills? And how the heck do you even fit it in the car cup holder?

Once, John was watching a soccer (football) match in Belgium with his coffee (thermos) mug in hand. It was a cold, early morning match. And one of the other dads asked why he had a cup and if it had whisky in it.

In Belgium coffee was a treat. A break. There was no such thing as coffee "to-go"and I can count on one hand how many Starbucks existed in the ENTIRE COUNTRY. And two of these were at the airport.

When you ordered coffee at a coffee shop, they served it on a tray, with a cookie. Or maybe a piece of chocolate. Or at my most favorite cafe in La Hulpe, they even served their coffee with a little amuse bouche of chocolate mousse. Yum. But the treat part wasn't what made it special, in fact, most of the time I couldn't even eat the cookie. (Stupid gluten allergy.) It was the attitude. It was the idea that this was a chance to sit down for a minute and drink a cup of coffee. It didn't have to take long, just a few minutes. But it was a break from your day to have a cup of coffee.

 Americans, I challenge you to take a coffee break. Tomorrow morning, when you drink your cup of coffee, go SIT DOWN somewhere. Sip from your coffee cup, take a few minutes to think about your day or even read your phone. Surely you can find a few minutes to try it. Trust me, you'll like it.

Relapse

I am always homesick for Belgium when we have a rainy day. And today is a rainy day.

I suppose it's normal to have a relapse. I suppose that it's normal for that relapse to hit about now. A month into the new school year, the shiny new shoes are not so shiny. The reality of homework and routines have set in.

We had a brilliant, glorious summer. Filled with festivals and fairs, family and friends. The weather was sunny and perfect. It provided a lot of distractions and excitement.

Today, when I pulled up to the curb in front of our house, I watched a city worker attach a long, red and white pole to the fire hydrant on the corner. The reality of what's in our very near future, set in. For my Belgian friends who might not know what this means, it's so the fire department can find the fire hydrant when that corner becomes a mountain of snow and ice. Yes, we Americans are nothing if not efficient.

That red and white pole is about six feet tall. I know last year's winter was especially harsh, but really? Does it have to be six feet tall? That's a bit excessive, don't you think?

I suppose it's time to tackle some of those projects I never got to this summer because we were having too much fun.

But maybe they can wait just a little longer.  There's a fire in the fireplace and rainy days make really good writing days….

Blessings and Backpacks.

The first day of kindergarten is a big deal in the United States, and at our new school especially. Most children go to preschool here, but usually it's only a half-day program a few days a week. When it's time for that five-year-old to finally go off to school all day, every day... as you can imagine, there is quite the emotional build-up. "My baby is going off to school" is the common sentiment. One which the likes of won't be seen again until that same baby goes off to college. Like I said, it's a big deal.

Since Miss B was already on her third year of kindergarten (maternelle) in Belgium, we just sort of rolled through all of the pomp and circumstance here. The Kinders didn't start on the same day as everyone else. On the second day, she went to an hour of orientation, which mostly seemed to be about the meeting for the parents. I think the school wanted to get us parents off to the right start. And even though I might have rolled my eyes, I really appreciated it because as a new family it sort of made me feel official, like we finally belonged here. After all, last year we just jumped into the middle of everything.

Miss B's first official day of school was the following day, the third day of school for everyone else. And when it finally came, we were saying "enough already, let's get this party started." To say we were ready is an understatement. (Miss B was more ready than anyone in our house for summer to be over and school to start.)

Finally, on that first day of school, the Kinders, most of them with proud happy faces, got into one of four lines. They waved at their parents and Miss B blew me kisses. All around me, other mothers struggled to hold back their tears. The three-year-old standing next to me cried loudly for her big sister, wanting to go too. "You have to wait your turn,"said her mother. "And I thought I would be the one crying today," she told me with a laugh.

The bell rang, and the big kids waited, patient. This was a special day. The first line of kindergartners started moving and everyone in the whole school started clapping. Like little rockstars, they marched through the door, waving to anyone who would wave back.

I wasn't expecting to be hit with emotion. Miss B had already been to school, everyone at our house was excited and grateful that she finally got to go to school as an American kid. But as Miss B's line began to move forward through the doors of our new school, I realized. I realized that she would never get to join Madame Christine's line of première primaire (first primary) kids marching into their first day of primary school at Saint-Joseph, like her brothers did before her. There would be no "blessing of the backpacks" this year. Miss B was never going to learn about the alpha letters, or go on a classe verte trip. And so many other things...

As I fought back the tears behind my sunglasses, I waved as my own kinder took her turn to proudly march through the door. Her empty Hello Kitty backpack bobbed up and down behind her...the tattered yellow "approved cabin baggage" ticket still attached.

Home Again. Home Again.

There were so many highlights from our summer. But one of the best has to be a special trip that AJ and I got to take at the end of June.

We got to go home. That's what it felt like when we got off the plane in Brussels. Familiar. Like we were home. 

AJ's fifth grade class in Belgium had an overnight bike trip the last week of school (the last week in June.) At the beginning of the year last year, AJ's teacher gave him the permission slip and AJ tried to give it back. He explained he wouldn't need it because he was moving. It started the wheels turning. I knew that school in Minnesota would be finished by the end of May. I talked to his teachers and they assured me that if he was able to make it back, he would certainly be allowed to go on the bike trip. 

In the middle of a frozen January, two of us were feeling especially homesick. It was a good time to purchase frequent flyer tickets for a trip in June. Having those tickets, and knowing we'd be able to go back to Belgium sooner than later, helped the two of us immensely.

We landed on a Sunday morning. Belgium was playing in a World Cup match that very night and we went with friends to a BBQ. (It was the closest I've ever seen the Belgians have anything close to a Super Bowl Party). In the twenty minutes before the match start time, we almost got in five different automobile accidents. Everyone was in a race to get to their destinations before game time.

I know jet lag was a factor, but within a few minutes of being at the party -- seeing old friends and catching up -- I was instantly reminded of something that had been easy to forget. I forgot how hard we had to work, every single day, just to understand a portion of what was going on around us. My French came back in a hurry (although not as good as AJ's did) and we had a great week.  

At the end of the week, with a full summer of fun ahead of us, we were ready to go home to Minnesota again. With the comfort of always knowing we can always go back home. 

The sound of silence.

Did you hear that?

My point exactly.

Nothing.

It is the blissful sound of silence. Three little people are back to school (ok, so two little people and one middle schooler). My youngest FINALLY got to start school as an American kid.

When the summer began, three long months stretched out before me. It made me nervous. How was I going to fill all of those days? (Summer vacation in Belgium is only 8 weeks.)

I will be the first one to tell you that our first American summer in six years was absolutely perfect. And while I was sad to see it come to an end, we were ready too. Those days flew by. I don't think I completed a single one of the projects I meant to do this summer, there just wasn't enough time. I didn't have any time to work on my new writing projects like I thought I would. I couldn't keep up with the blog entries I meant to post here.

But in one week the tide has turned. John started a new job. The kids are back at school. And I am getting myself back into balance. Part of that balance is catching up with a few entries here.

Please stop saying that!

We are having a glorious Minnesota summer. In my humble opinion, the weather has been absolutely perfect. But that's not hard for me to say, given that we moved back during one of the worst winters in record history. Also consider that for the last six years, we lived through the cool and rainy Belgian summers.

I have to admit, I was nervous going into summer. In Belgium, the last day of school is at the end of June, leaving only two months for summer vacation. Looking at the calendar as our last day of school approached the first week of June, I got nervous. What was I going to do with all of those days?

We had a great start. John took Monkey to Alopeciapolloza in upstate New York, leaving them a few days to tour NYC. The day after they got back, I took AJ back to Belgium for a week (more on that in an upcoming post). We had a week back together again as a family for the 4th of July festivities, and then John and I took Miss B to my cousin's wedding in Alabama. Each kid got one-on-one travel time, and the ones left behind got to bond with each other (and Grandma Sue at one point or another.) It was great.

Except for when they were all back together under the same roof, they had to learn how to get along all over again. I shouldn't have been surprised, the same thing happens to me and John after he's been on a long trip. For one solid week, it was a constant battle. I think we are through the worst of it now.

Now, we start the summer camps. Last week, Miss B had a French Immersion camp. We also finished up two weeks of swimming lessons. Next week, Miss B gets another French camp, and Monkey gets to go to Theater. This week, we have absolutely nothing. No swimming lessons, no soccer practice, no soccer tryouts, nothing. I'm so excited!

There's just one thing. I've heard people out and about, starting to complain that the summer is almost over. To that I shout, "It is NOT! We still have one month left! And it's the best part! We haven't even had the State Fair yet!"

If this were Belgium, we went back to school after two months of summer. If you translate that to our summer this year, we would be finished with our two months of summer and we would be starting school this week.

But instead, we still have one month left! Yay Summer! (Check back with me in three weeks, I'm sure I will be saying "Yay! School!") I think it will be just enough time…which will make it a perfect summer.

Confessions of a Terrible Soccer Mom. Part 1

Here is my first confession: I entitled this blog a Part 1, and I don't even have a Part 2 yet. I just know that I will probably need one, because I sort of suck at being an American Soccer Mom.

Let's start with the schedule. In Belgium it was easy (I never knew how good I had it!) Practice two days a week at the same time, same place (our Club's field, five minutes away) and matches on Saturday. Even when their practice schedules overlapped, everything was always at the same field. Here, we've got soccer three days a week, Monkey is Monday/Wednesday, AJ is Tuesday/Thursday. And they each have a practice on Sunday. They are never at the same place twice, and matches are always evenings during the week. Sometimes on the opposite end of downtown, meaning a rush hour traffic battle.

In the beginning, before the matches really started, the planned practice was only an hour long. With the drive time, it made more sense to stay and "watch" (or sometimes try to run a quick errand) during that hour. Often, I would fight hard to get to be the one to "drive" - just so I could have that hour to sit by myself, or run an errand, ALONE. Confession: when I stayed to "watch," I didn't really watch. I worked. Reading my manuscript on my kindle, or reading a book for background research, or catching up on emails. I was the only parent not cheering for my kid at practice, and despite the sideways glances, I didn't feel the least bit guilty about it.

When the matches began, everything changed. (Just when I had it all figured out.) The practice times and locations changed. We even have two different "home" fields that we play on - on opposite ends of town. They have two different colors of jerseys. They have to wear one and bring the other for all matches. One team uses red for away. "It's easy," they told me when I once asked how to know what color to put on him, "Red = road." Yeah, it's easy if you can remember which team uses that method, because the other kid's team doesn't do that.

At the end of the day, I could use a personal assistant, just to help me manage the schedule. And if they show up wearing a clean jersey, that's the right color and not their brother's number, I feel a  major sense of accomplishment. Purple shorts and purple socks were so much easier, especially after several years and we had collected several sets of both.

We've been meeting people non-stop for the last six months. I am bombarded with new names and faces on a regular basis. Parents at school. Parents from ballet. Parents from soccer. It's getting much better, but I can't always remember which names go with which faces from which team. Maybe if I hadn't had my nose in a book at practice, it wouldn't have taken so long.

I did, however, finally start remembering to bring my camping chair to the matches here. In Belgium, we just stood for the match. I liked that, actually. Less stuff to schlep. And when it started raining, it was less stuff to get wet. You just popped open your umbrella or pulled up your hood. And you could move around when the teams switched goals at halftime. But here, everyone parks themselves and sits. And without a chair, you have no way to claim your space.

So the first day I remembered to bring my chair to the match, I was faced with a major dilemma. As I walked over to the field with my camping chair slung over my arm, I realized there were two separate sets of parents. Which group were the parents of my team? I honestly had no idea. My pace slowed as I tried to figure it out. I could only imagine how awkward it would be to choose the wrong set, and have to get up out of my chair and move it to the other group. Oh well, I figured, it would make a good blog entry if that's what happened.

In the end, I chose correctly. And now, I even know most of the parents by name. (Or at least know which kid they belong to.) Just in time for the season to end, and get a new team for Fall.

Taking Turns

My expat friends in Belgium, always complained to me about the road rage of Belgian drivers. I guess I never drove on the Ring (highway) there as much as I do here, but I just never saw that. Not compared to here. For the most part, I always found that Belgian drivers were especially courteous.

For example, at our new school. We don't have a bus, and there are 900 students at our school (of course, keep in mind that it is a Catholic school, so there are some really big families). In any event, there are a lot of cars trying to turn down the same street at the same time. My first week of school, images from the 80's movie Mr. Mom, kept flashing into my mind. Do you remember the scene where he takes the kids to school and the kids keep telling him, "You're doing it wrong." And the other moms are screaming at him, "South to drop off, north to pick-up you moron!" Well, that's what I felt like our first week of school.

But anyway. In Belgium, whenever there was a back-up of traffic, drivers would just naturally take turns. There, unlike here, there was usually only one way to get somewhere. In Europe, roads grew organically from well traveled paths and ancient highways that led from town to town. Here, early American city planners had enough space to plot everything on a logical grid. The result there, is that you have to wait in traffic. A lot. And sometimes it's for something as stupid as a delivery truck that decides to block an entire (or sometimes both) lanes of traffic. It's almost like sense of camaraderie develops. An attitude that "we're all in the together, let's work it out together". With a collective disgust for the delivery truck driver, of course.

That doesn't happen so much here. A few weeks ago, a large delivery truck was blocking a lane of traffic on our route to school. We saw it in time to change course, turn down the next street, drive one block down, and get around it easily. Drivers that could foresee the upcoming challenge, get themselves around it, were rewarded with a minimal delay. The drivers who didn't realize there was a problem until it was too late to turn, were stuck. And I found myself thinking, "it sucks to be them."

On the way into school, we turn right down the "west to drop-off" street. And obviously, because we are turning right, we have the right of way. There is always a line of cars waiting to turn left. I always let a car from the left lane go before me, just like I learned from driving in Belgium. But no one else ever does. This amazes me. Especially because we are all parents of kids at the same Catholic school. Which sort of makes me think we should follow higher standards of courtesy or something. Not to mention we're all going to see each other in the parking lot in a minute.

My Belgian and/or French friends would say this is an example of Americans being rude. (They say that a lot.) But I don't think that's it, exactly. I just think that in the mornings especially, we are so focused on where we are going and what we are doing, that we don't always pay attention to what's going on around us. But maybe we should pay attention a little more? So that we can take turns if we need to.

Monkey would be able to tell you how many times I've said to myself (out loud, so of course the kids were eavesdropping): "I can't believe no one here takes turns, I need to blog about this." Because I said it enough that he started counting.

So now that school is out, and our mornings are quiet again, I can cross "blog about taking turns" off my end of the school year list.

Coming up next: Reasons I'm a Terrible Soccer Mom.

May Day, Fail.

So today was May Day. In Belgium, May Day is a bank holiday and the sun was probably shining so everyone probably had a nice day off from school and work. With maybe a picnic at the Chateau, or a lovely day sitting in the garden sipping French rose wine. Sigh.

Today in Minnesota, I wore my winter coat. I didn't even want to take it off when I got inside the house. I am just so tired of being cold.

In any event, I completely forgot about the May Days of my childhood. The ones where we would leave little baskets of popcorn and candy for our friends in the neighborhood, by ringing their doorbells and running to hide before they could see us. It was the only day of the year where ding-dong-doorbell-ditching was ok.

I forgot about those May Day... until tonight.

The wind outside was blowing. The storm clouds were rolling across the sky, threatening, but not quite delivering anything but darkness.

We're having one of those crazy weeknight weeks where one kid has soccer practice right over dinnertime. The other two were having a dinner date in the kitchen and I seized a quiet moment to run down to the laundry room. (I know, I know. But I promise, we still try to make sure there are more family dinner nights than not.) Anyway, I heard Monkey and Miss B calling me, with terror in their voices.

"Mommy! Someone is knocking on our BACK door! Who could be knocking on our BACK door?!" Miss B's lower lip quivered and as far as they were concerned, I couldn't get to the back door fast enough.

When we opened the door, the branches on the naked lilac bush were waving, but we didn't see anyone, anywhere.

But a small, handmade construction flower lay at our feet. And I remembered.

I explained the May Day tradition to the kids with a smile, and promised that next year we would do better.

So to whichever neighbor thought of us tonight, and successfully left a May Day greeting without getting caught, thank you.

Dealership Differences

It's no secret that one of the biggest challenges we faced in Belgium was dealing with our car. Go back to some of the blog entries about that time some sort of weasel chewed through the electrical wires if you need a refresher.

So when the Chevy dealership emailed me last week to say that there was a recall for my car and I needed to schedule it for service, my first thought was "Thank God I don't have to go to the dealership in Waterloo, Belgium."

Let's start with the phone call. First of all, it was in English. Now, when I say that, please know that I never expected anyone to speak English when I lived in Belgium. I learned French, and could speak it well enough to make appointments. Even if it did make me nervous to call, it was a fear I learned to rise above. But whenever I called the dealership, even if I was speaking French, they would put me on hold. I could of course still hear what they were saying, because they would shout to the one guy that had to deal with us English-speakers that there was "one of us" on the phone. When I called last week to make my appointment for today, they knew who I was, they asked me when I could come (instead of telling me their only available time) and it was within the same week of my call.

When I arrived this morning, they asked if I would be staying here to wait. They didn't roll their eyes at me when I said yes. They told me they would try to get the repair done by 11. They gave me their WiFi code, they offered me coffee and breakfast, and pointed me to the comfy chairs by the television or the work stations in the corner. I want to come here every day!

Then, the shuttle driver came into ask, "Who is going to Savage?" And a lady stood up and went with him. Savage is pretty far away. And a customer just got a free ride there. I doubt if she even realizes how cool that is, (which is fine, by the way) I hope she never has to know.

Here I sit, typing away, drinking my coffee. People smile at me when they walk by. And when it's all said and done, I know I won't even have to pay for it. They told me they would do a complimentary service check, and also run it through the car wash.

So just to recap. Waiting at the dealership in Belgium was frowned upon. They always told me, no matter what the repair, that it would be more than a day. If I had asked them for a ride anywhere, they would have flat out told me I was crazy. If I wanted to rent their car, I had to pay for it. The repair would always take more time than they said. I doubt that if anything on our car had ever been recalled, anyone would have thought to notify us. That sort of burden would have been on the buyer, and when French was our second language, this was a big burden. And if we had taken our car in for a recall repair, we most certainly would have had to pay for it ourselves.

So for today, I feel very lucky to be sitting here in Bloomington, Minnesota, and not Waterloo, Belgium.

I was just told that my car is finished. It's 11:02. How awesome is that?

The good stuff...

I was at a reunion over the weekend - for my college swim team. I had a chance to see friends that were some of the best I've made in my life, that I haven't seen in a long time.

I was already feeling incredibly lucky that I lived two miles from the event venue, and not an ocean away as I used to be. In talking with some of my friends, it was brought to my attention that some of my most recent Facebook posts and blog entries have, ahem...shall we say, reflected some of my challenges and difficulties readapting to my new/old life.

Now I'm not one for a lot of excuses, I try to own my actions, but seriously. The winter in Minnesota was brutal. And this change, was a big one. But spring has finally sprung - our snowstorm of last Friday was almost completely wiped away by the warm temperatures of this last week and it's time to focus on the good.

Actually, we've been focused on the positive throughout this whole move. (Even if my posts haven't always reflected it.) It has really helped to get us through. We've all had our moments where we are homesick for Belgium. But when we find ourselves feeling sad, we stop, and find something good, and look forward.

Here is just a sampling of some of the good stuff:

The kids really love their new school. The teachers and staff have done an amazing job helping our kids adapt and making sure everyone was settling in to the best of their ability. Their transition into their new school has been beyond our expectations, and this is because of everyone at the school.

An obvious big one is being back near old friends and our family. For the first time in six years, we got to hold and see a brand new baby! Right after she was born! And not have to wait until a trip back across the ocean to meet the newest family member.

There are small things here and there that sneak up on me throughout the day too. For example, when I open a carton of eggs, I don't have to worry about chicken poop, straw and feathers. They are all clean! Every single one of them!

I LOVE my refrigerator. It is three times the size of the one we had in Belgium, and my freezer is probably about ten times the size of my old shoe-box freezer. That means: ice, frozen pizza, more than one choice of meat to make for dinner, ice cream and most important, frozen toaster waffles.

In the grocery store, there are lots of choices for everything, but especially cereal. Cereal that isn't chocolate cereal. (Of course, we still miss A LOT of other stuff from the Belgian grocery stores, but this is a post for the good stuff…)

The organization of Americans. Although at times I'm completely overwhelmed by the email communications from school, it's still nice to get them. And I am going more than a little crazy trying to stay on top of  the emails from the soccer teams. BUT,  did you know there is an app called Team Snap? This is an app for my phone that lets me check-in for soccer practices and matches! On my phone! I just click "yes" if my kid is going to be there or not. And if not, I can say give a brief explanation as to why. That is absolutely amazing!  Not to mention I have a list of all of the tournaments for the next three months, AND the address and directions are RIGHT THERE ON MY PHONE! Simply amazing. For anyone else that's had to wait until Friday night's practice to get the tiny scrap of muddy paper with the match time and location for the Saturday match, and then drive through cow pastures in a random corner of Belgium to get to said match…they would be right there with me to shout the word AMAZING.

And last but not least, today I am at the car dealership. In fact, the car dealership deserves an entire entry of its own. Stay tuned….

Who's that girl?

"Who's that girl…the crazy one that just jumps into whatever random conversation is happening around her, at any time?"

That would be me.

I have a problem. Ever since we've moved back to Minnesota, I have a HUGE eavesdropping problem and I haven't been able to shake it.

During our first week of school after we moved, I was walking across the "Quad" or "Plaza" (at the moment I can't actually remember what they call the area where all of the moms have to wait for their kids to come out of school). And there were two moms that were having a conversation, as they passed one another, about the weather. And guess who had to chime right in and give her two cents? Yep. That would be me.

And whenever I try to work at a coffee shop, I find myself accidentally tuning into all of the conversations going on around me. Last week, a law student named Ryan was interviewing for a clerkship with a solo practitioner. I don't know what the lawyer thought, but he sounded good to me and I would've hired him.

And a few weeks ago, I accidentally "attended" a coffee date with two young moms. Mom A was really worried about her 18 month-old's fear of swimming lessons. Mom B was worried about something with her in-laws. And I was worried that neither of them seemed to be watching the toddler of Mom A who was sitting next to me eating crackers off the floor. Thankfully, I had the good sense to keep my mouth shut during their chat. But in my head, I was an active participant in their entire conversation, answering their questions and telling them not to worry about going away on their upcoming girls' weekend. But how, maybe they shouldn't let their kid wander up to strangers and eat crackers off the muddy floor.

I've tried finding tables off to themselves. But last week a young college student and I found tables next to each other at the same time, and it would have just been awkward to pick my stuff up and move. No problem, I thought, she's by herself anyway. But then her date showed up. I never would have expected to end up on a first date with someone at 8:30 in the morning on a weekday, but there I was. I heard all about how cool it was to see the Dalai Lama speak in person. And I listened as they discussed majors and families and career ideas.

I never realized how noisy conversations could be. But I guess it makes sense that after only hearing French, English would just seem to be noisier. In Belgium, I used to love writing in coffee shops. I was productive, typing out scenes with impressive word counts. But everything around me was happening in French. I had to concentrate hard to understand everything, so eavesdropping was just too much effort. I got spoiled.

And now, I have to remind myself that no one is actually talking to me. And strangers probably don't care what I think about x, y or z.

Sigh. Maybe I should just go find a library if I really need to write a scene without distraction. A library with posted "no talking" signs.

New numbers….

It's funny, when you get new phone numbers for everything, the chances that those numbers used to belong to people who owe other people a lot of money must be pretty high. 

I say that because for the first two months, the only people that ever called our home phone were looking for a John or Jane Doe. (All names in this blog post have been changed…mostly because these people must have enough problems already, they don't need me adding to their angst.) One call was actually from their neighbor, who was traveling, and was calling to ask if I would please move his car for him during the upcoming snow emergency. After a few minutes of confusion (it was a snow emergency, and a lot of our neighbors were traveling) I figured out before he did that he had the wrong number. In the process of convincing him that I was not answering the phone on behalf of Mr. or Mrs. Doe, he gave me their address (an apartment building not far away from us).   

It got to be so bad that I turned the ringer off of our home phone for the first month. When the kids started giving their home number out at school, I finally figured out how to set up our voicemail system. There were 25 messages for Mr. or Mrs. Doe. It was quite an eye opener to listen to them consecutively. Some were from telemarketers. Others were polite, requests to call the banker and/or debt consultant back to help get back on track. One guy had a system, he called once a week at the same time every week (in my opinion, not a very good system if you are trying to find someone). And finally, toward the end of the month, the messages started out with, "if you are not Mr. or Mrs. Doe, please do not listen further…" Which, would probably usually be met with the response, "Yeah, right." But I chose to abide and not listen further. Mostly because I just didn't need to know any more about these poor people anymore than I already did. 

I felt  a little bad that I hadn't been more diligent in answering the phone. The calls I've gotten on my cell phone for a Mr. Smith (also a pseudonym) were somewhat more annoying but subsided more quickly, probably because I had to answer the calls. One was an an automated call, where I was directed to sit on hold so I could talk to a "debt planning consultant" - which I did so that I could tell them that it was a new number. Ugh. Although, the call I answered a few minutes ago was really sneaky. Someone pretending to sound like they were a friend…but the tone changed immediately when I explained that I must have Mr. Smith's old number because I've been getting all kinds of calls for him.

So I've learned a few lessons: 1.) I never want to be that person who has to make those calls; 2.) I never want to be that person they are calling; and 3.) If I am ever that person they are calling, I'm going to get a new phone number immediately. Although, on second thought, making someone else have to deal with those calls must run up quite a big bill in the karma department. I think I will just make sure I'm debt-free...in all respects.

St. Patrick's Day Fail.

On Sunday, my brother picked me up at 10 and we drove more than five hours to Illinois for a funeral. We were there long enough for the wake, dinner after and the morning service. Then we turned around and drove home again - to try to beat the next snow storm hitting the Midwest. It was a lot of time in the car, but the last time I took a road trip with just my brother was…well…never. So there's that.

I got home just in time for dinner (thanks again to my mother-in-law for staying with Miss B for the day and starting dinner). The boys had their first day back at school after "spring" break.

When I came in the door, my mother-in-law said, "I'm just going to run out to the store, I tried to get Lucky Charms earlier and they were all out."

"What?" I said. "Why do we need Lucky Charms for dinner?"

"Well," she said, "I guess Monkey told John he was the only one in the class who didn't have them for breakfast and he wanted me to get some for him."

And what we have here is a game of "telephone" gone horribly wrong.

As it turns out, Monkey explained that it wasn't anything about cereal, he was the only one in his class who did not get a visit from a troublesome Leprechaun.

Sigh. Really?

I just cannot keep up with the moms here. They are so much better at everything than I am.

I was already feeling overwhelmed by all of the people who seemed to dedicate an entire weekend to celebrating St. Patrick's Day in a drunken-stooper, and keep in mind I was gone for 24 hours of it. On Saturday morning, they began an exodus through our neighborhood to the nearby Irish Pub. The party started Saturday morning and went into the late hours on Monday night. That's a lot of drunk people wandering around our neighborhood. It was enough to make me not want to drink again. Ever.

But then, to find out I was supposed to orchestrate the antics of a Leprechaun too? What has happened to this holiday while we were out of the country? Apparently, if you don't have kids you are supposed to drink all weekend. And if you do have kids, you have to spend your weekend concocting a Leprechaun Trap. I guess I vaguely remember seeing a few posts last year on Facebook - about said Leprechaun Traps. And I even remember thinking they were cute and clever and how those kids were lucky to have such fun parents. But that was before I knew I was expected to be a similarly fun parent.

So I asked him, "Do you REALLY believe in Leprechauns?"

He got a goofy grin and shook his head no.

"Good, how about I buy you a box of Lucky Charms tomorrow when I go to the store and we call it even," I said, stealing John's original idea.

He gave me the thumbs up and we now have a box of Lucky Charms in our cupboard. And there is still half of a shamrock-shaped cake leftover - but that was complements of Grandma Sue, of course.

Metaphor Moments.

Sometimes, life crashes a lesson over my head, and it's just too good not to blog about it.

While I've declared the move officially over, that doesn't mean I actually know where everything is, or that we have everything put away in the right place. And that gets frustrating. Our basement is a disaster, and it's just too cold right now to go down there and do anything about it.

I spent the morning being frustrated about not being able to find some important books. I knew I needed to go for a run, I know that after I work out, I feel better and can deal with frustrating situations much better.

Ever since the last snow storm and cold snap, I've been running inside. I've found a community center where I can buy a track pass to use their indoor track. It's small, 11 laps equal one mile so it's hard not to feel like a hamster on a wheel, but it's a human temperature and I don't have to risk life and limb watching out for ice (and cars.) I can only get there a couple of times a week when the kids are in school, and this week was spring break so the indoor track was out of the question.

But over this last week, it warmed up. A warm-up in Minnesota after that much snow means a lot of standing puddles of muddy, ookey-gross water. But we were on day four of the defrost, so the sidewalks were sort of even dry. It was just too nice not to try, so I ventured out for a run. I managed ok for awhile, but eventually, I got stuck waiting for a stoplight to change at a busy intersection.

If you are from Minnesota, you can probably guess what happened next. A car sped up to make the light, sending a tidal wave wall of muddy, ookey-gross water all over me. Sigh. I spent the rest of my run thinking about how much I miss running at the Chateau de La Hulpe, and how it really hasn't been easy to re-adapt to Minnesota. And cars rushing through intersections splashing water all over me don't help much.

But, by nature (whether a curse or a blessing depends on the moment) I can't help but find the silver lining in just about anything. And the silver lining here was that it was warm enough to have puddles and melting snow. Sigh.

Today, it was time to venture out again. The sidewalks are pretty dry, and today was just a little colder so the melting snow has momentarily stopped melting. I had great expectations for a good run. Any Minnesotan attempting to run during the spring, knows they have to be good at dodging two things: icy patches and puddles. Today, there was more ice than puddles. About three blocks from home, I ran myself right into a huge patch of ice, made more dangerous by being melting snow that had refrozen into a slick solid smooth stretch of ice. I had been going too fast to realize that there was no good way out, or around it -- no grassy edge or snow chunks to jump onto to keep going. I was able to slow carefully to a stop, but my legs slipped right out from under me and I promptly fell on my ass.

I sat there for a minute, assessing the damage. And I cried. I didn't care who saw me (no one did), I just needed to cry. I let myself cry for two minutes and it made me feel better. And then I tried to figure out how to get up. It was just like that preview from the movie Frozen where the reindeer gets stuck on the pond and can't get up. But I eventually got up on my own. I could have limped myself home and called it a day. But anyone who knows me knows I'm too stubborn to ever do that. So I ran it off and by the time I got home I already had the silver linings figured out. I could have been hurt a lot worse than the giant bruise that is sure to form on my bum. And I had myself a new blog entry to write.

Spring is coming and I'm just going to keep running.

Oh, and as a side note, John found all of my missing books for me.

You can take the girl out of Minnesota...

Last week we had yet another blizzard, which meant another day off from school and another mountain of snow to shovel out from under. Every single time I've shoveled snow this winter, I've thought about two things: 1.) This is why I never complained about the rain in Belgium; and 2.) If I ever buy another house in St. Paul, it will not be on a corner lot.

Last weekend I was thinking these exact same things as I shoveled the long sidewalk along the side of our property. It was a huge snowfall, and the plows were behind with clearing the streets. And seriously, all of us, snowplows and homeowners alike, are running out of places to put the snow. It is everywhere.

A car (minivan) turned onto our unplowed street and promptly got stuck. I did what any decent Minnesotan does when this happens: I went over and offered to push. I probably don't have to tell you that me pushing all by myself didn't do a whole heck of a lot (it was kind of a big minivan in a lot of snow). But within minutes, a college kid driving by stopped to lend a hand. Together we almost had it. Then, my neighbor walked by with his dog. We were so close, but the tires were slipping and spinning on all the new snow so I ran to my front porch, took two of our ten million flat empty boxes, and placed them under the tires where they were slipping. Viola! The car was free to go on her way (which turned out to be the closest available parking spot on the plowed side of the street.) I can tell you that it's not the first time I've pushed a stuck car out of a snowdrift, and I'm sure it won't be my last.

The whole incident reminded me of a snowy day in Belgium a few years ago.

Let me start by saying that the women in Belgium are among the most classy and sophisticated I have ever met. They are effortlessly fashion forward and I spent six years in quiet admiration. Throughout this whole time, on behalf of improving the image of Americans everywhere, I tried my best to rise to their level of style and grace.

On this particular day, I failed miserably.

It had snowed, and a tiny bit of snow in Belgium causes chaos and confusion. In fact, during our first snow storm back here in Minnesota, we left the house for school and the kids stared in amazement out the windows as our short drive to school took exactly the same amount of time as it always did.

"Mommy!" they said. "The cars are driving! In the snow!"
"Yes, I know," I answered. "It's Minnesota."

But I digress. Back to this particular snowy day in Belgium.

After a thirty minute (6 km) drive to school, I was dreading going back through traffic to get home. When I reached my car, I could see that a mom (who could have easily walked on a Paris runway as a model, except that she was probably too short and petite) was miserably stuck in her parking spot. She was driving (or rather, trying to drive) a Mini-Cooper. Her wheels were spinning hopelessly on the cobblestones. But I could see exactly where she was stuck. "Let me push," I suggested, (but in my not-so-great French.)

"Push?" she repeated, a look of horror on her face. "Umm…Oui" I answered, but my confidence faltered in seeing the look on her face. But at that point, it was too late not to try. Plus, I'm not the sort of girl that backs down from a challenge. But even though it was only a Mini, I couldn't push her out by myself. She got some tire-net, snow-things from her trunk and put them under the wheels. "These will help," she said. But I knew (from experience) that she had them in the wrong spot - behind the back wheels instead of the front. When I tried to explain, she shook her head in a very determined way (that the French are very good at) to say that I was wrong.

After which I could only shrug and let her try to figure it out on her own. I left that day feeling like I let my fellow Minnesotans down in the worst way: not being able to get a car unstuck from two inches of snow.

But last week, after the worst blizzard I've seen in a long time, and the minivan crunched over my boxes to freedom, I redeemed myself.

Buffalo Wings, Chocolate Torte and Chameleons

Lately, John and I have been enjoying one of the best parts about being back in Minnesota: Grandma Sue. Grandma Sue has been coming to town a lot lately, to see all of the grandkids. When she comes to town, she divides her time between our house and John's sister's house and is happy to stay with the kids while John and I enjoy a quick night out. It helps with the monotony of a long winter, for all of us.

Last night, was just such a date night. We usually keep it simple and last night was no different. I really  wanted beer (there is a great new American gluten free beer) and buffalo wings (no Buffalo wings in Belgium.) We found our way to a local pub. They specialize in a variety of beer and their menu is more European than most around here, but I held out hope that they still had wings. They did. And they had my beer, all three different "flavors" (for lack of a better word.) Thus, it was a perfect destination for our date night.

Their sophisticated beer selection and "European" menu (as well as their location on the edge of downtown) attracts young professionals. Corporate climbers and attorneys, that sort of crowd. We bellied-up to the bar and ordered. Our afternoon and evening thus far had been about driving kids to ballet, making sure homework was done, feeding grandma and the crew and herding everyone through baths and showers. Then it was "grab the keys and get out the door without looking back." I had a lipstick in my purse and I swiped it over my lips in the car. I am in desperate need of a haircut, and I'm always cold, those two factors combined mean I haven't taken my hat off my head since we arrived in Minnesota in December. In other words, we weren't exactly all decked out. But one thing I learned about living in Belgium, is that a nice sweater, a cute scarf or hat, and a pair of boots goes a long way to looking pulled together. And in Minnesota in the middle of winter, functionality often wins out over fashion anyway, so we fit in just fine. I wasn't worried.

The bar was crowded, but most everyone trickled out over the course of the night. There was a young couple near us at the bar that were obviously on a date. He was dressed uber-cool and had dark thick, stuck-his-finger-in-an-electrical-socket-type-hair and black rimmed glasses. If I had to guess? New lawyer. (No judgment intended, I used to be one myself once.) His date was a petite blond, wearing a sweater vest. If I had to guess? Kindergarten teacher.

John hadn't wanted any wings (he'd eaten a lot of the dinner I had set out for the kids.) So I worked my way through almost the entire plate of wings. (I hadn't eaten a single bite of the kids' dinner, I was saving myself for the wings.) But the date-couple had shared some sort of amazing dessert. So John leaned over to ask, "Hey, what did you guys order for dessert? Was it ice cream? It looked really great." And uber-cool-guy answered in the most pretentious, arrogant voice I've heard in awhile, "No, it was the chocolate torte." I think his nose turned up in the air a bit as he said it too.

John gave a slight nod of his head and a small polite laugh and said, "Thanks." Then he turned to me and we laughed. We couldn't help ourselves. For the next five minutes, we whispered to each other without caring what anyone thought. And we could not stop laughing. Uber-cool-guy shifted uncomfortably in his seat and I felt bad for him. Really, I did. No one likes, nor deserves to be, laughed at, especially someone who is obviously trying so hard to be impressive. But it was just so funny.

In those moments of laughter I realized what we must look like to him: me in my stocking hat, sitting at the bar drinking local beer from the bottle and eating wings, and asking about what we thought was the ice cream dessert. I certainly didn't look like the lawyer I once was.

What he could never have known, was that we were two Americans who had lived the last six years in central Europe, recently stateside again and out to enjoy some of the American specialties we had missed for so long. How could he possibly know, that last spring I took a cooking class taught by my friend from the kids' school who had trained as a French chef. In that class, I learned how to make a chocolate torte from scratch, by melting butter and dark French chocolate and I had done so by only speaking French. And don't even get me started on the collection of French wine and champagne, smuggled carefully via suitcases over the course of several trips and waiting patiently in our basement. Reserved for only the most special of occasions from here on out.

I think it is safe to say that John and I have mastered the art of blending in. After years of living and traveling abroad in a post-9/11 world, we have learned to fit into whatever scene surrounds us, in the moment. It's a skill that I am rather proud of -- I would rather not stand out in a crowd. At this point in my life, I am much more comfortable blending in…like chameleons. Last night, I was happy to let the spotlight shine on the lawyers and young professionals who were excited to be out, enjoying the more exotic choices on the menu and drinking fancier drinks. We looked exactly how we wanted to look...like two cold midwesterners, with a chance to sneak out for a quick beer and a plate of wings. If that means we don't deserve Mr. Uber-Cool's approval, so be it...we will probably just laugh it off.

But I have this message to Mr. Uber-Cool, and a reminder for all of us, myself included: be careful not to judge. For you never know, the person sitting next to you might just be a chameleon.

First Impressions.

Now that all of the moving posts are over, it's time to move on to some fun stuff.

One of my favorite parts of moving back, has been watching and observing the reactions of the kids. Just seeing what they notice. They are pretty insightful about some things, and just plain funny about others.

For example, one of the first comments Miss B made to me (keep in mind she was born in Belgium, and the last time she'd been on U.S. soil was almost two years ago) was, "Mommy! The toilet flushers here are so cool, they are little handles!" (In Belgium, most of the toilets flush with a button on top. Something, I don't think I ever even noticed until she made her comment.)  That was followed a few days later with, "Mommy! The toilet paper here is SO soft!" Ahem. Apparently I should have invested more money in my toilet paper purchases there.

I should do an entire post about commercials, but I can't wait. During the first official week in our house, A.J. said, "Mommy, the commercials here say really important things about life, but then it's for something stupid like toothpaste."

There are a lot more commercials here. Monkey calls them "previews". "Mommy," he said. "There are just too many previews, I don't like all of the previews." It took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about. And one day, he tracked me down where I was unpacking boxes, to tell me, "Mommy! Did you know there is a vacuum without cords on TV?"

And speaking of commercials/previews, we are not used to tuning them out. I would guess that most American kids have figured out that commercials are the time to run to the bathroom or whatever, at least that's what I always used to do during the commercials. Not my kids. My kids have not yet developed the skills to tune them out and are instead completely riveted to the commercials. Entranced. And as a result, I've found myself having to explain a lot of things that I never expected to have to explain. Like erectile disfunction. And vaginal dryness. (And no, we weren't watching anything obnoxious, we were watching Modern Family reruns on cable.) But seriously, do we have to have commercials for that stuff? Can't people just slink through the pharmacy and find what they need without being so informed?

One day last week, A.J. came home from school, very excited. "Mommy," he said. "Today I learned how to open my milk." Mental head slap. I've tried to anticipate and preempt some of their challenges, like explaining the Pledge of Allegiance. But opening his milk carton is not something I ever would have thought to show him. But of course they didn't have milk cartons in Belgium. They don't drink milk with lunch in Belgium (only breakfast) and anyway, milk is in bottles there, not cartons.

Ok, and I will end with this. Last week we were coming back from dinner and came across the radio station Kool 108. This is the "oldies" station that my mom always used to listen to when I was in high school. It was music from the fifties and sixties and maybe even the early 70's if they were feeling bold. And now? Kool 108 still calls itself the oldies station. But they play music from the 80's. And John and I sang along to Don Henley's The Boys of Summer, at the top of our lungs, all the way home.

I guess...it's official.

We still have a few boxes here and there. Ok, a lot of boxes. But I am officially calling this move over. Funny, I just looked at the date today. February 19, 2014. Two months ago today, December 19, 2013, we flew from Brussels to Minneapolis, to our new/old home.

It is a little strange, but also comfortable to be back in the same house. As I put stuff away into the very cupboards that I emptied six years ago, I feel like I have a chance to make good choices. Better, wiser choices. Some of the stuff is going back into the same spot. A lot of stuff is going out the door and not coming back. If there is one thing I learned living in a sparse house for five weeks, we just don't need all the stuff we thought we needed.  

I made it official today. I changed my location settings on all of my social media forms -- Twitter, Facebook and here on this blog. My heart has this dull ache that comes and goes, and it has been particularly strong today. For six years, my location, Brussels, has been a primary defining factor of my identity. That's what I was doing, that was my purpose. 

It's the same feeling I had when I finished college, or even law school. That feeling like you don't exactly know what's coming next. There is all kinds of uncertainty, apprehension. And it's different now too, because we've got little people. My focus has been on them, making sure they are doing ok. It doesn't leave much room for figuring out what's next for me. 

But if history has taught me anything, it will be something. A new challenge. Another reinvention, just around the corner. It will be hard to top the last experience. But I have a lot of faith that I will figure it out. 

 

Our Nomadic Journey, Part 3: Let's just be done already.

Can we please just get these blog posts about the move over with already?

Yes, I know. At this point in the whole process, I was ready to be done with anything and everything having to do with a move.

But, slight problem, we still had to wait for our furniture. And in the middle of it all, there was this weather phenomenon they are calling "the polar vortex." From what I understand, that's just a fancy way of saying, colder than hell. No wait, bad analogy -- hell is supposed to be hot. Whatever. All I know, is that Minnesota experienced temperatures that rivaled the North Pole, right at the same time we were trying to move in and get settled.

So here we were, in our new/old house, with minimal furniture. We had mattresses, and a table and chairs from storage, and a camping chair. And a giant television. I probably don't have to tell you that there were a lot of arguments about who got to sit in the chair. Although, we do have a fireplace in our new/old house, and laying on a blanket in front of the fireplace was a pretty good alternative to the chair.

Meanwhile, school kept getting cancelled because the temperatures were so cold, it was dangerous to go outside. I was happy that we had air shipped the wii, and that Santa brought Isabelle "Just Dance" for Christmas. But unfortunately, this also meant delays for our container. It was coming from port via rail to Minneapolis, and the sub-zero temperatures meant the rails couldn't operate.

We finally got word that our furniture was here, but because of all of the delays, the company had a difficult time finding a driver to deliver it. They finally did, on a Friday at noon. Of course we had six inches (sorry, I converted to the metric system for a lot of things, but I will forever measure snowfall by inches) of snow the night before, so it was a snow emergency. For my Belgian friends, that means that we had so much snow, the city needs to plow all of the streets. To do this, there are rules about where you can park your car at night, and then different rules for the day. Of course, during the day of a snow emergency, there is no parking on the street in front of our house. And we were about to have a container delivered. Right there. Thankfully, my genius of a husband thought to call the city to ask. Good thing he did too, or we would have had a $500 fine from the city.

I felt physically ill watching this truck pull up to our house on a Friday afternoon. I was there when they packed it. I knew exactly how many boxes were in that container. I knew what our house in Belgium looked like the day before the container came -- stacks of white boxes everywhere. And even though our house here is almost the same square footage as our house in Belgium, the rooms are very different. There was no way, they would be able to unload that truck in four hours without a whole lot of chaos.

Our movers here had never seen anything like it. Every single piece of our furniture had been taken apart and put into a box. Our couch, was in six different pieces. Same for our beds, dressers, dining room table, shelves -- everything. If our movers in Belgium could have taken apart our mattresses, they probably would have.

So I fought hard against the Type A personality that dictates most of my life choices, and opted for plan B. I left. John and I had already agreed that under no circumstances, were the movers going to be allowed to leave until we at least had beds to sleep in that night, and a couch to sit on for the weekend. I knew I was leaving the house in good hands. I picked up the kids from school and we went to my sister-in-law's house for the rest of the afternoon. And hid. And in the end, that choice was probably a better one for my marriage. We got back to the house in the evening and they were still getting the last of the boxes in the house and shoving them into whatever tiny spaces were left.

It took all four of the mover guys to figure out how to put the couch together. And I don't think I've ever been so happy to have a couch before.

In this whole chaotic moving mess, we just keep trying to find the good where we can. And it's usually the little things that have counted for the most.

Our Nomadic Journey, Part 2: Christmas Vacation

The second phase of our trip was all about Christmas. (Yes, at this phase of our move, I was still thinking about it like it was all a big "trip").

We spent the first weekend with my brother and his wife. And we were so happy to be there, and catch up and let the kids get reacquainted with their cousins. We snuck over to our new/old house to leave some luggage, and have the wireless internet installed. Then, it was on our way "up North" for a good old fashioned fun family Christmas with John's family.

It was the second week since we'd been out of our house and it really felt like we were on a much needed vacation. The cousins played. The grown-ups ate and drank. It was wonderful to hold the nine-month-old baby we'd finally gotten to meet, and take time to "be" with everyone. I can't tell you how much we just appreciated - and still do appreciate - the chance to see everyone.

We hadn't had much of a chance to "get ready" for Christmas. But thanks to internet shopping we had enough to suffice. And if there was ever a year not to worry about it, this was it. This was the year that Christmas was all about our family in a way that it had never been, nor probably will ever be to the same extent, ever again.

Buzz Kill.

The flight went as well as could be expected. There were lots of movies to watch, and everyone was tired and worn out enough to sleep a little.

Traveling with three kids, I learned a long time ago that it's best to just pack everyone a box of (mostly healthy) stuff I know they'll eat, and let them eat what they want whenever they want, rather than rely on the airplane food choices. So yes, Ms. Flight Attendant, I am perfectly fine with my ten-year old son refusing, your delectable offer of a meal. Please save your judgmental looks for someone else. Not that it's any of your business, but he ate his peanut butter sandwich when we got on the plane, because that's when his body told him it was time to eat. And yes, I am also fine with him refusing your hot-pocket-type-pizza-sandwhich and only accepting the ice cream cup during the "snack" service. My kids aren't familiar with that sort of gooey cheese goodness (yet) and let's not forget, that it is almost midnight Belgian time. He might not be that hungry.

We got off the plan in a jet lag stupor, and got ourselves through customs. This not being our first time re-entering the good ol' U.S. of A., I knew that one of my biggest jobs as a mom of three was to get rid of all of the forbidden foods before we got off the plane. That meant we had to dump all of the cheeses, uneaten salami sandwiches and fruit. And I didn't feel the least bit bad about throwing it all away as most of it had come from our refrigerator before we moved and it had served its purpose well.

We dragged tired little bodies through the line at customs, and each child even answered the customs agent when spoken to. And not one word was mentioned about our extra bottles of wine. All was good. A.J. was in a pile against the wall while we got our NINE suitcases. "You'll be ok," I told him. "It's just the jet lag. We just have to get on the elevator and through the door and Uncle Ryan will be there to take us home."

We shuffled ourselves through the last customs agent. Balancing two carts, wheely carry-ons, backpacks and tired kids, we pushed everyone just a little bit further. "Just get to the elevator," we said again. "Uncle Ryan will be there when it opens to help us."

Only, when it did, there was no Uncle Ryan. (Sorry Uncle Ryan, if you are reading this, I didn't mean to call you out in front of everyone.) But it was kind of funny, to see all sorts of families waiting with signs and balloons for their college-age kids coming back after spending a semester abroad. And then have to dig out my Belgian phone to say, "We're here!"

In all fairness, our flight arrived ahead of schedule, we needed two cars to pick us up, and it was the middle of rush hour on a weeknight the week before Christmas. Kind of a lot to ask of anyone, but especially of two working parents with little kids. It was enough to know we were going to their house, and their house was close to the airport.

Thankfully, my cell phone still worked and we had plenty of luggage to sit on while we waited. Soon enough, we and our pile of luggage and backpacks, were on our way and in our blurry tiredness, we didn't even really notice or remember that we had to wait a few minutes.

The Fowler Family was home.

And in the end it turned out to be a good thing A.J. didn't eat much on the plane. Somewhere along the way he picked up a stomach bug and spent his first 24 hours in the U.S. with a high fever and unable to keep anything down. But it passed quickly enough and we were just happy it didn't hit any earlier than it did.

On to Christmas!

Our Nomadic Journey, Part 1: Saying Goodbye

On December 12, we moved to our temporary apartment.

You should have seen the look on the guy's face when we pulled up. With nine suitcases.

Let me back up. We knew our "pack-up and move-out" would take about a four to five days. We knew that this would be exhausting. We also knew that at the end of that, we didn't want to wake up in the morning, get on a plane and fly away. So we planned an "in-between" week. Somewhere we could transition ourselves out of Belgium.

A key factor was location. We needed somewhere nearby so the kids could finish off their last week of school, and we could wrap up whatever was needed as we wound everything down. We found the perfect place.

We found a furnished apartment that was advertised as a bed and breakfast, and low and behold, it was halfway between our house in La Hulpe and the kids' school. Perfect. It was a loft apartment with one bedroom and a room with a kitchenette and a pull-out couch. We told them we wouldn't need the breakfast service. I don't think they knew what they were getting into when the agreed to rent us the loft apartment above their garage.

We settled in and as sad as we were to be out out of our home, we were happy to have one of the hardest parts over and done with and a quiet place to live out our last week.

We took the kids to school in the morning. We finished off the last of the football practices. With the cleaners hired, and football (soccer) practices behind us, that left us the weekend to be tourists. We took a day trip to our favorite Belgian town in the Ardennes (La Roche en Ardennes) and Sunday we went to the Christmas market in Brussels.

We celebrated Miss B's birthday on Monday with her favorite dinner (saucisse and frites) by temporarily stealing back the grill we had given to the neighbor and grilling at our apartment. Tuesday, we rented the upstairs room at the local pub and really confused our Belgian friends with the idea of an open-invite happy hour. Not having my class lists meant we couldn't send a mass invitation email, which meant that we had to rely on word of mouth, which meant that the kids were in charge of the invites. But in the end we had a great turnout and a fun night. Although, I really hadn't expected all of the going-away gifts and it just about threw me over the edge in terms of packing. Thank goodness John had reached his rainbow gold sparkly status at Delta and it no longer mattered how heavy our bags were.

That left us one last day of school. And one last night in Belgium, which was spent at a dear friend's for dinner. She helped drive us to the airport in the dark the next morning.

Of all of the trials and tribulations I have ever faced living as an expat in Belgium, the last day and night I spent in my beloved adopted country, was one of the most difficult days of my life.

It will be a long, long time before I can think about all of those goodbyes without tears running down my face.

Moving Out.

In Belgium, when you move out of a rental property, you have to leave it in pristine condition. And by pristine, I mean sparkling. The good news, is that the designated life of a paint job is six years (which we were short of by just a few months.) So we already knew they wouldn't be able to charge us for all the places that Miss B wrote her name in crayon. (As long as it was on a wall.)

Over the years, we had heard plenty of stories from neighbors that had moved on, to know that our landlords are very, very difficult at the final walk-through. Their goal is to try to keep your entire deposit (which is double, if not triple a standard deposit in the U.S.) We already had a relocation agent to assist us with all things required to leave the country, but we were also advised to hire an expert to attend the walk-through, as well as hire a professional cleaning company that specialized in a move.

We had quotes from cleaning companies. Jeesh. I could think of a lot of other ways to spend that kind of money in Europe before moving, but we also knew that we didn't want to spend our last weekend in Belgium scrubbing sinks to make them "shine like the top of the Chrysler building" (to quote Ms. Hannigan.)

So I saved. And I saved, and I saved. We had to sell a lot of stuff. Lamps, appliances, a washer and dryer, all kinds of stuff that plugged into a wall there, that wouldn't be able to plug into a wall here. It was also a good time to get rid of any furniture we knew we didn't want to move back across the ocean. Fortunately, the expat community is efficient. I knew all of the sites to post everything. I negotiated. I "bundled" items together to get rid of more and give someone a deal. I sold it all - from the espresso machine to the iron. From the toaster to the television. And I sort of enjoyed it. John called me "his own personal Turkish trader." And he's been to Turkey several times over. I guess he would know.

Every euro I earned by pawning off all of our stuff went into the "cleaning fund" envelope that I had squirreled away. And on Saturday morning, when John stopped by the house to let them in, and I instead made a cup of coffee and scrolled through my Twitter feed, I knew it was worth every single cent.

So when the walk-through came around on Tuesday, we were feeling pretty confident. It was one of the strangest moving experiences I've ever had. We sat in the kitchen with the landlord, while our expert walked through the entire house with their expert. They bickered back and forth about every little knick, dent and beautifully colored surface (thanks again Miss B) in the entire four-stories (counting the basement.)  And then, they went in a room, shut the door and negotiated how much each knick, dent and scratch was worth as subtracted from our damage deposit.

In other words, had we not had our cleaners, our relocation agent and our expert we would have been utterly and royally screwed.

But in the end, we got enough of our damage deposit back....(drum roll please)....to pay our boys' catholic school tuition for the rest of the year.

Cue the big sigh of relief.

Ch-ch-ch-changes....

How does the song go? Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, turn and face the strange ch-ch changes?

(It's David Bowie. I cheated and looked it up. If I'm going to put a song in your head, I should at least give credit where credit is due.)

There have been quite a few changes in the last month. But I will try to catch up with all of it, here.

First and foremost, let's get an obvious discrepancy out of the way shall we? The name of this blog is "My Adventures as an Expat in Belgium." I should probably change the name to "My Adventures as an Expat in Belgium that has Now Moved Back to Minnesota." But that is just way too complicated.

I started this blog as a way to keep family and friends updated on our new life in Belgium. After all, we had taken the grandchildren to live far away from their grandparents. The least we could do was post some pictures and stories about our life in a new country.

Well, that blog evolved. My readership grew, and my original format on a private blog site was forced to go public when technology changed. Originally, I was only blogging for friends and family back in the U.S. But over the years, my blog became just as much for my expat and Belgian friends. They thought my observations about my adopted country were amusing, offering them a chance to see their country through different eyes.

And now, I'm sure they are wondering what life is like now for my little family -- after working so hard to  integrate into a new culture, how does one, just go back? And friends here are interested to know how we are adapting, and what we find challenging.

So, the thing is, I still have stuff to talk about. So I will keep writing it. Even if the title isn't exactly as true as it used to be.

The meaning of Advent....Fail. Or maybe not?

I knew all along that Christmas would be very different for us this year. The movers were coming on December 10. We wouldn't have much time for a tree. Childhood goes so quickly, and as I looked at boxes of decorations and ornaments in the basement that would go a whole year without being opened, part of me felt like we were stealing a year of Christmas memories away from our kids.

The other part of me rallied to make the best of it. And repeated the lesson of the Grinch: Christmas isn't about the wrappings, it comes anyway. (Only Dr. Seuss rhymed it better and was more eloquent.) I looked at those boxes and decided that our focus this Christmas would be on Advent. We would bring the Advent calendars with us in our suitcases, and countdown the days to Baby Jesus no matter where we were.

We have three advent calendars at our house. One is a magnetic board with the creche scene. Each day, we open a door and add a new magnet: a star, a cow, Joseph, etc. The last door is Baby Jesus. Another calendar is in the shape of a Christmas tree, with numbered drawers. When you open the drawer, you turn it around and eventually all of the drawers make a winter scene. I bought it at Starbucks several years ago, and it was filled with the worst chocolate I have ever tasted in my life. But I liked it because it was reusable, and now I can fill each drawer with three pieces of whatever candy I want. (Want to know a secret? I use their Halloween candy. Shhh.) Last year, we had an elaborate system for taking turns and with the two calendars someone had to sit out each day. So I bought one last Advent calendar. This one is a snowman, and he has little pockets. I decided that I would write a little advent message for each pocket, things that would help get our hearts ready for Christmas. Something like "do something nice for someone else in your family without being asked" or "be a good friend to someone at school" or "smile at someone that looks sad," you get the idea. Next year, one of the first pieces of paper is going to read "Do not fight with your brother and/or sister over who's turn it is to do what with the advent calendars."

We got off to a good start and the kids were all in. It took a day or two to figure out who was doing what in the rotation, thus the 'note to self' about a note about not fighting for next year. Miss B, the sneaky devil, preferred the magnet board and it took a few days to catch on to her evil plans to commander that one for herself. But I digress.

The movers arrived on the morning of the 10th and all was a whirlwind after that. Before they came, I remember thinking that our pack-up would take forever, and "no one can be more efficient than our American packers five years ago, those guys were good." But these guys were better. They were Flemish. And organized. They arrived at our door at 7:30 in the morning, smoked a cigarette and came right inside and got to work. That first day, I made John take the kids to school so I could keep an eye on things and finish our suitcases.

I learned a lesson with our first move: make sure you have the suitcases packed before the movers show up. Last time, I was still finishing up my own suitcase when the packers got to my room. I came around the corner to find my dresser had been packed. The result? I had to go to Target to buy new underwear before we flew out. I wouldn't make that mistake this time. But no matter how many times I told Johnny to pack his suitcases, he still hadn't. "How can I think about what I need to pack for the next six weeks?" he said to me every time. Before he got back that morning, I called him to say "You better figure it out quick because I can't keep track of all these guys at the same time and there's one upstairs and I don't know what he's doing."

In all of that chaos, I forgot the one thing about Christmas I was going to salvage. The advent calendars. The magnet board and snowman both got packed when I wasn't looking. I did save the candy filled Christmas tree. A good thing too, as we weren't allowed any sort of food items in our shipments. That would be all we needed, our container to get flagged at customs thanks to a few pieces of chocolate and gummies in a Christmas tree box.

In any event, the suitcases got packed, the boxes got packed, and soon we were on our way in a journey that would end up taking a long time with many emotional ups and downs. We shifted our eyes to look ahead to Christmas. Not to the trimmings and trappings, but to our family. For the first time in six years, we would get to spend Christmas with our families. That was our anchor through the next few, very difficult, weeks.